


The king's moods

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Anal Play, F/M, Gloves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-25
Updated: 2009-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never takes off his gloves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The king's moods

**Author's Note:**

> I'm blaming my evil twin for this one.

The other maids had tried to warn her about the king. He had these moods.... She had not wanted to believe it. Had not been able to believe it. King Uther had been queenless so long; he was so dignified, so aloof, so apart from the common folk in most ways. And he had always been generous to her father, his favorite armorer. She could not believe, at least, that he would ever approach *her*.

But at the moment Gwen's hands are braced on the windowsill, her fingers spread and trying not to curve, not to dig into cold stone. Her hair is undone, and her head is bowed; she can't bear to look out of the window, through the open casement on this warm summer day, onto the bustling marketplace, not like this. Not while he's touching her.

This is not the first time Uther has told her to close the door and stand by the window. It's not the first time he has lifted up her skirts, her gown, even her shift, until her legs and her belly and her bottom are bare to his sight, to his touch. It's not the first time he has touched her, felt her, taken her, and it probably won't be the last.

He never takes off his gloves.

The leather glides over her thighs and skims her from hip to breast. Deftly he unbinds her hair and loosens it about her neck; deftly he unlaces her bodice so he can cup her breasts, rub his thumbs over her nipples, knead her flesh until she whimpers. She's allowed to make noise but not to protest, and not to move. Gwen obediently does not move when the king draws a finger down her spine and over the cleft of her buttocks; she only spreads her thighs a little further when his big hand seeks its way between them.

The leather is smooth and cool, stroking over hot moist folds. A drop of sweat rolls down between Gwen's breasts. She bites her lip. The king's gloved fingers stroke and probe, finding a hard sensitive spot, rubbing in a way that makes her thighs tremble and her breath come short. Uther makes a very small sound, not quite a grunt, that she knows means approval. From behind her come the little tinkle and pop that tell her he has picked the vial of sweet oil, poured the stopper, and tipped some into his hand.

The oil lets his finger glide easily into the secret of her body, stretching and making room for another finger. Gwen bites her lip harder; it's always hard to keep still. The steel rims of the king's gloves are chill against her thighs as his fingers crook inside her, pressing on a deeper sensitive spot, and a little gasp escapes her. She squeezes her eyes shut against the mental image of that little triumphant smile she knows will be on his lips.

The almost invisible sound of the oil being poured again, and then she gasps sharply as the slick leather eases between her buttocks and seeks the secret opening there. The gloved finger strokes so tenderly; it presses so beseechingly, so gently. Oh, god, he's touching her arse, he's pushing inside her there--please, no--but she mustn't say anything and she will never, ever tell anyone how good this feels. No one will believe how good it feels to have that thick gloved finger in her bum up to the last knuckle.

She sobs when Uther withdraws, then has a stab of panic--what if he wants to put his prick there? It's both relief and disappointment when he steps in close and eases into her cunny, as usual. "Bend forward," he hisses, his breath hot on her neck. Gwen obeys, leaning her weight on the casement, and the king grasps her hips and begins riding her.

Gwen's not totally unfamiliar with the fumbling of boys. Even without brothers, a girl will stumble across their games. Uther is no boy. His aim is to use her for as long as possible, and he knows exactly how to accomplish that aim. The first time she had been sore, afterward, so sore only a hot bath eased the ache. Now her muscles are used to it, and despite the shame, despite the strong hands on her hips, her body moves with the rhythm of the man's body. She's allowed to move, now, when he's fucking her. When it increases his pleasure.

Hard, firm strokes, not fast. She knows now how her body will react to this, to the demands of a hard prick and clever hands and little whispers of encouragement. The first time she spent in his grasp, she wept the rest of the day; soon, she thinks, she will reach a point where she welcomes the unwelcome pleasure, where the shame is washed away by the shuddering of her womb, where she thinks at least she's getting something, too. Soon, but not yet. When Uther pushes suddenly against her arsehole and spills there, Gwen bites her lip and tastes blood.

When it's over, when his body has left hers, the king dismisses her casually. As she hurries out, Uther sits down, a little flushed, and rubs his hands together, oiling the black leather gloves.


End file.
